Time of Dying
by Notalittlegirl
Summary: Arthur Kirkland lay on the ground, in a pool of his own blood, wondering if maybe it was the end of his life, and praying it wasn't. There were people that cared about him, and he didn't want to let them down by dying. Set in WWII. Loosely based on the song Time of Dying by Three Days Grace. FACE Family if you look hard enough.


_I don't own Hetalia. Also, thanks to GermanRainbows for suggesting the song, and thanks to you for reading this!_

A blond man lay silent and still on the ground. Unfortunately, it was a battle field, littered with bodies of dead soldiers, and he didn't look very out of place. He wasn't dead, though. Not yet.

The thoughts in his mind were racing. "Is this some sort of twisted nightmare?" His brilliantly green eyes opened wide under thick eyebrows.

"This couldn't be the end for me…" He stated out loud, horrified by how weak and raspy his voice sounded.

"No." He choked out, rolling over to more carefully inspect his wound.

It wasn't good.

"I'll be fine – I'm a nation." He reminded himself. The man was Arthur Kirkland, the representation of Britain. The time was World War II, and he'd been fighting with the rest of the Allied forces, against the Axis. The battle had been won, but no one had seen the nation fall, and he'd been lying face down, looking for all the world like just one more corpse.

He gasped for a breath, fearfully noticing that it was getting harder and harder for him to breathe.

"Wh…What is this?" He asked, to no one in particular. " I feel like I'm dying… I can't die."

Despite the fact that he couldn't die, his voice got progressively weaker as he spoke, as did his entire body while he continued losing blood.

His thoughts continued to swirl around in his head, and one in particular, a hopeful one, presented itself to him.

"They'll notice I'm gone. The rest of the Allies. They'll come back for me." Then, unbidden, another thought sprang forward. "I just need to survive that long."

He was acutely aware of the pain radiating through him from the base of his spine, where he'd landed as he fell, and aware of the blood flowing out of the bullet wound in his side, staining his green uniform and the ground he was lying on.

His vision began to get a black border on all sides, and he was almost certain he was passing out.

A fresh wave of pain came from his back, and he heard himself cry out for help. Or maybe it was for a merciful death. He didn't know.

A shout sounded, echoing in Arthur's ears as if from a distance. "There he is!"

Footsteps pounded their way to his side.

"Mon dieu, Angleterre!" A familiar voice exclaimed. "He needs help!" The voice called out.

A face appeared over Arthur's own. "Can you hear me?"

"Of course I can, I'm not deaf, Frog." He replied weakly.

The frog in question, Francis Bonnefoy, the personification of France, chuckled humorlessly as another person hurried over to them.

"What happened?" Alfred F. Jones, the personification of the United States of America, exclaimed in his loud voice.

"I was shot… Idiot." Arthur replied

"America, you have to help me lift him." Francis said, quickly adding, "Carefully," as the younger nation immediately bent down.

"Got it!" Alfred exclaimed.

As they lifted him, another wave of pain shot up his spine. The last thing he heard before the world went black was his own cry of pain.

-At a Later Time-

When he next became aware, it was of a searing pain in his lower back.

"If I'm hurting this much, at least I'm alive." He thought to himself, savoring the feeling of warmth, and being in a bed. He reasoned he was in a hospital.

He cautiously opened his eyes, finding himself, as he thought, in a hospital bed, with bandages on his bullet wound and an I.V. in his arm.

Sitting next to his bedside were Alfred and Francis.

"Artie! You're awake! Thank goodness!" Alfred shouted when he saw the other's eyes open.

"Shh! Alfred, you're far too loud." Francis scolded him. "Remember that this is a hospital!" Then he looked over at Arthur.

"Thank goodness you're awake, Arthur. Everyone was very worried about you." He said.

"Of course I'm alright," He replied, a bit irritated.

"You were out for three days." Francis told him.

"Three days… I've seen worse." Arthur muttered, mostly to himself.

"That's not all…" He was told.

"Well, what is it? Spit it out." He asked Francis, more nicely than he usually would have.

"Well, the doctors are pretty sure you're going to paralyzed from the waist down." Francis told him, in as gentle a tone of voice as he could. "Not permanently, but still." He added quickly seeing Arthur's face fall. "Apparently your spinal injury affected your movement of your legs."

"Oh." Arthur replied, at a loss for words. "Well…"

"But you're going to be okay!" Alfred exclaimed, a bit sad at seeing his friend's face look so shattered. "We've been waiting for you to wake up." He continued.

"Thank you." Arthur said, genuinely. "I'm glad it's only all this, and my time wasn't up. I felt like I was dying." He revealed.

"Nope! You old man." Alfred teased.

Francis laughed to see Alfred and Arthur proceed to bicker good naturedly.

For the next few days, Francis consistently visited him everyday, with Alfred and Alfred's brother Matthew when their schedule allowed. Arthur got the feeling that Francis was just using it as an excuse to not do any work.

Arthur's condition got progressively better at a rate that amazed his doctors, though he didn't regain movement of his legs in those few days. As they marveled at his miraculous recovery, he just told them, "It's all a part of the job." From what they told him of how long it would have taken a human to regain use of their legs, he figured it would be only a few months before he could walk again.

Before a week had passed, the doctors had no reason to keep him there anymore, and released him in a wheelchair, pushed by Francis.

As he was rolled out into the sunlight, he realized how thankful he was that he had lived. Although the knowledge that he wouldn't die had been present in his mind, he had still been terrified out of his wits.

They made it to Francis's car, where Alfred and Matthew were waiting for them. Arthur was helped into the passenger seat and his wheelchair was folded up and put in the trunk.

To himself, he muttered, "It's not my time yet. I have too many people who care too much."

He was insistent about working through the disability, so they began driving back to the Allies' headquarters.

Arthur was loudly complaining about the Frenchman's driving, with Alfred and Matthew laughing in the backseat, and all of them were relieved at how their lives could somehow still go on.

So, they drove back to a semblance of normal life, to business, to the war.

_This may be continued if it gets positive feedback, and/or I find the motivation to finish it. Thank you so much for reading it, and if there's anything you noticed I could have done better, I'd really appreciate if you'd tell me in a review, so that I can continue improving in my writing._


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